The Winter Call Poem by Mark Heathcote

I felt her cracks of pain
her cannibalistic acceptance of death
as I kissed the winter wind
With frost gazed breath,
I saw the shadowed wall
heaped in arctic snow and ice, solemn rest:
I, too, was calling out to my soul
for its end and ultimate behest
to rest my head on her wan, cold chest
like a moon in the gallows of the insane.
I kissed the winter wind
and I waved it and her on their way, then forever
in due course, sadly, never to be seen again.